Salty: A Novel by Mark Haskell Smith

Author:Mark Haskell Smith [Smith, Mark Haskell]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2007-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

Aforensic entomologist can tell how long a body’s been rotting in a swamp by collecting the bugs—the insect eggs and larvae—living on the corpse, taking them back to the lab, and watching them hatch and develop. Insect lives are set on precise time lines, and trained scientists will recognize the difference between a teenage maggot and the newly hatched, thus enabling them to calculate a precise date of death.

The Thai policeman standing waist-deep in the muck of the mangrove swamp didn’t bother to collect any bug larvae, he didn’t worry about disturbing the evidence, he didn’t wait for the crime scene investigators to come crawling around the swamp looking for forensic evidence the size of a mosquito penis. The body had been gnawed, nipped, sucked, and munched beyond recognition. It had turned into a bobbing luncheonette for all varieties of fish, crabs, and scavenging seagulls. It was host to a convention of bone-white maggots, skin-eating beetles, leeches, carnivorous wasps, and whatever else happened to be passing by looking for some kind of rotting carrion to do its thing on.

In fact the Thai policeman and his partner had considered just leaving the body to float where it was—who wanted to bag that thing?—until they found a U.S. passport in the floater’s clothing. Now they’d have to do everything by the book; they’d be spending their afternoon doing paperwork, filing forms, and waiting for someone from the U.S. consulate to arrive.

Ben took the call on his cell phone. Roy, his assistant, had spoken to the Thai authorities in Phuket. Responding to an anonymous phone call, they’d found the body of the woman from Seattle floating in a mangrove swamp a few meters from a fancy resort. According to police on the scene, the body had been in the water for at least twenty-four hours. Ben thanked Roy and told him to book him a seat on the next available flight to Phuket. Then he hung up the phone and ground his teeth.

Too bad it wasn’t Sheila.

He wished he’d been down there to manage the scene, control the flow of information, maybe fix things in his favor. He was encouraged by the fact that the kidnappers had killed the American woman. That meant they’d probably kill Sheila sooner or later. Too bad they didn’t decapitate her, then it’d really look like terrorists were behind it.

Those extremists love to lop off the heads.

He thought about what to do next. Ben realized he needed to separate Turk from the Lampard security consultant as soon as possible. The last thing he wanted was for Turk to get a clue, gain competence, or take any useful advice. A blundering, clueless Turk was dangerous enough, but with a little coaching Turk might actually throw a wrench in Ben’s plan.

Ben looked around the lobby of the Oriental Hotel. It was considered one of the best hotels in the world, first-class all the way. He’d never stayed in a hotel like this. It was a luxury that he couldn’t afford on his salary.

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